Old Roles and New Pains
by Zana Zira
Summary: Set between 2x22 and 3x1: Dean's been avoiding Sam ever since told him about the deal. Sam knows Dean is more affected than he lets on, but he also knows that Dean's never going to show any kind of weakness in front of him unless he has no other choice. As it turns out, bottling things up is not a good way for Dean to avoid showing emotion. Migraine!Dean for an LJ prompt. Gen.


**Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. Sadly, I do not own any of these guys.**

**A/N: This was written for an anonymous prompt on LJ. The prompt was as follows:**

**"Just... Migraine-y Dean :) Please?"**

**I hope you all enjoy this, and I'm very sorry for taking so long between fics! **

* * *

_"How long do you get, Dean?"_

_"One year. I got one year."_

_"You shouldn't've done that. How could you do that?"_

_"Don't get mad at me. Don't you do that. I had to. I had to look out for you. That's my job."_

_"And what do you think _my_ job is?"_

_"What?"_

_"You've saved my life over and over. I mean, you sacrifice everything for me. Don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change."_

_"Yeah…"_

* * *

It had seemed all well and good for Sam to claim he was going to save Dean's soul from Hell back at that cemetery. They'd both been riding high, feeling invincible after killing the demon who the entire Winchester family had been hunting for the last twenty-four years. Whether it was a Croatoan virus, Azazel, or Hell itself, nothing was going to take away their victory from then on.

But that had been two days ago, and thus far Sam had found absolutely no ideas for how he would even _begin_ freeing his brother from his contract. That was a good thing, because Dean didn't even want him to.

Whoever that Crossroads Demon was had made it perfectly clear that if Dean tried to finagle his way out of the deal, Sam would be dead as a doornail again in an instant. And while the younger Winchester didn't remember a thing about being dead, the older one most certainly did, and he was adamant that Sam not fool around with this until they had a better idea what they were dealing with. If he had to lose his baby brother like that again, there was no way Dean would make it; there was no way he'd _want_ to make it.

So for now, the two of them were laying low at Bobby's, trying to figure out where all the demons from the Hell-gate had dispersed to so they could begin tracking them down one by one. Dean had been underneath the Impala since early that morning, partly to give his baby a much-needed tune-up and partly to avoid Sam's hovering. It seemed like ever since Sam found out he only had a year left, he had started acting like Dean had some kind of terminal illness, always asking if he was okay, and if he needed anything, and "Why aren't you having breakfast, Dean? Do you feel okay? Shall I spoon feed it to you before it gets cold, poor baby?"

Okay, so maybe that was a bit exaggerated. But seriously, the kid acted like it was Dean who had just been brought back from the dead instead of him.

So he wasn't hungry today. Big deal. All he'd really done the past couple of days was laze around Bobby's, so of course he hadn't worked up an appetite. And yeah, maybe he hadn't really slept well last night even though he'd been practically asleep on his feet for the entire evening before then, and he'd had a headache since waking up and his neck was a little stiff. So what? They'd both taken a beating fighting Azazel, and it was sure to come with a few aches and pains. Nothing Sam should get so chick-flicky about.

Sighing in relief as he tightened one last bolt underneath the Impala, Dean shimmied out the rest of the way, shielding his eyes as the sun flashed brightly right into them. He grunted when a strange throbbing sensation began to form between his left eye and temple, rubbing at his eyes to get rid of the sunspots in them. Oddly enough, the throbbing only seemed to get worse with the added pressure, which didn't help the headache at all, so he stopped immediately.

"Huh," he muttered, blinking rapidly and shielding his eyes with his hand. "Weird." The throbbing dulled down to a dull pulsing once he'd ducked his head away from the sunlight, and he didn't give it another thought as he started putting his tools away and searching for something to wash down the Impala's windows with. If he could just stay away from the house a little longer, maybe this whole mother hen routine of Sam's would just blow over…

* * *

"I'm worried about him, Bobby," Sam said as he popped the top off a bottle of beer and sat down at the old table in the older hunter's kitchen. Bobby said nothing, just taking a bite of one of the sandwiches he had fixed them for lunch and raising one eyebrow to get Sam to continue. "I mean, do you think he's even concerned about the fact that he's going to Hell in less than twelve months?"

"Sam, it's Hell. Of course he's concerned," Bobby said like Sam was the biggest idjit he'd ever seen. "But he's also Dean. He's not gonna let you in on that no matter what – you know how he is about emotional talks. He'll end up showing it one way or another if you just let him alone."

"Yeah, I know…" Sam sighed, putting down his sandwich when he realized he wasn't that hungry anymore. Thinking about not having his brother here with him at this time next year was making him feel sick. He stood up and grabbed a paper plate, putting one of the extra sandwiches and some chips on it and heading toward the door. "I'm gonna go take Dean some lunch, okay Bobby? He skipped breakfast, so he's gotta be hungry by now."

He was out the door and on his way across the salvage yard before Bobby had a chance to respond, making his way toward the small garage where he knew his brother would have probably been all day. That, at least, was typical Dean; wherever the Impala went, he was sure to be too. It didn't take Sam long to reach the garage, and he shook his head and smiled when he saw the Impala, cleaned up and looking probably better than it had when it was made.

"Dean? I brought you lunch," he called out, figuring his brother was still under the car or doing something on the other side of it that he couldn't see. A few seconds passed with no response, so he tried again. "Dean? You there?"

A small groan answered his call this time, and Sam immediately set down the plate of food on a nearby shelf, stepping around toward the other side of the car with his heart in his throat. Something was wrong with his brother, he could feel it. Was the demon reneging on her deal and taking him early?

He came around the corner of the trunk and spotted Dean immediately, sitting in the far corner of the wall near the hood and curled almost into a fetal position with his head in his hands. When Sam knelt beside him, he could see that his eyes were clenched shut, and hear the shaky way he was breathing – almost whimpering – every few seconds.

"Dean?" he asked, lowering his voice when his brother flinched at the sound. "What's wrong, man? Talk to me."

"Head… m' head's killin' me…" He blinked up at Sam for a brief moment, then hissed and clamped his eyes shut again. "Agh, dammit…"

"Your head hurts? Did you hit it on something?"

"No, it just…" Dean swallowed and groaned. "Just hurts. Bad. Even the light hurts."

"For how long?"

"Dunno. Had a headache all morning, but… nothing like this. It came out of absolutely frickin' nowhere…" He whimpered again at the sound of his own voice, rubbing at his temples and then flinching when it only caused more pain.

Sam sighed, pretty sure he knew what this was now and not too happy to know how much it was going to suck for Dean.

"Okay, I think I know how to deal with this, but we've gotta get you to the house first. Do you think you can make it back there?"

Dean nodded, letting Sam help him up when he realized his legs were about as steady as gelatin. The younger Winchester threw his brother's arm around his shoulders, holding most of his weight when it became clear that Dean was in no way capable of doing so himself. They had just made it out of the garage and started toward the house when Dean made the mistake of opening his eyes to say something to Sam. He immediately gasped and clenched them shut, letting go of Sam's shoulder so he could drop to his knees and retch into the dirt. That only seemed to make it worse, though, because Dean whined in distress after each heave, unable to catch his breath or stop the dry-retching now that he was in so much pain.

"Dammit," Sam cursed under his breath, knowing how hard it would be for his brother to calm himself down with the light and vomiting putting so much more strain on his pounding head – Sam had been there, and he knew how terrible it was. Thinking fast, he pulled off his over-shirt and folded it into one long, wide strip, tying the fabric around Dean's eyes like a blindfold to darken his vision as much as possible. After that, there was nothing to do but keep a steady, comforting hand on Dean's back, waiting until the heaves had tapered off and he was able to take Sam's hand and stand up again.

The remainder of the walk to the house went much better, since even if Dean forgot to keep his eyes closed he couldn't see anything, and before long Sam was guiding him up the old wooden stairs and into Bobby's kitchen, where the old hunter intercepted them before they could make it any farther.

"Dean? Where the hell have you been all day?" he asked irritably. "Sam's been trying to find –"

"Shh!" Sam hissed when Dean moaned again, holding his hands over his ears and curling into himself in pain.

"What's wrong, boy? You hurt yourself out there?" Bobby whispered, now obviously concerned by the state of the usually loud and exuberant Winchester.

"Migraine, I think," Sam answered quietly, pushing Dean forward into the living room and toward the couch with Bobby close behind them. "I had a few while I was at Stanford and from what my friends told me, they used to look a lot like this."

He helped Dean lie down on the couch, the old shirt still wrapped around his eyes. When he stood up to go to the kitchen again, though, Dean made a small noise of protest, blindly gripping onto Sam's hand and frowning.

Sam smiled and then patted his shoulder reassuringly. "I'm just gonna get you some pain meds, okay Dean? I'll be right back."

"Mmhmm… 'kay…"

He was back in less than fifteen seconds, carrying a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. It wasn't nearly as strong as he would like, and he was planning to go to a pharmacy and get his old migraine meds refilled very soon, but it might at least take the edge off for Dean while he was gone.

Once Dean had swallowed the pills and was lying as comfortably as he could on the couch – Bobby had even gotten him a pillow from the upstairs bedroom, since Dean was in no shape to handle stairs – Sam grabbed the keys to the Impala and headed for the front door. He hated to leave his brother alone, knowing that a migraine that hit this fast and hard was never going to get better just as quickly, but there wasn't anything else he could do unless he went to the pharmacy for some supplies.

"Just keep it as dark and quiet as you can, okay Bobby?" he said in as hushed a voice as he could muster while still being heard. "And try to keep him as comfortable as possible."

"You got it," Bobby responded, sitting down in a chair beside Dean to make sure he'd be right there if his pseudo-son needed anything. Sam smiled sadly and waved, then made his way out the door, turning the knob first so it wouldn't make a sound when it shut.

It was fairly quiet for about ten minutes. Dean lay still, finally having taken Sam's shirt off his face when Bobby turned out the lights and shut the blinds, and was obviously trying very hard to think of anything besides the unbearable pounding in his skull and eye socket. Bobby sat beside him, reading a small book about exorcisms in other languages and making no noise save for a flip of a page every few minutes. Suddenly, Dean gasped and started trying to sit up, startling Bobby and bringing him closer to the younger man's side immediately.

"What is it?" he asked worriedly when Dean closed his eyes and groaned again.

"Bobby… S'ck…" he gulped out, clapping a hand over his mouth and swallowing hard. Bobby barely had time to snatch up the waste paper basket and shove it under his chin before he was retching again, holding his head and actually sobbing with pain between each harsh gag. There wasn't much to come up except whitish water – so much for that Advil – which meant the entire process was just that much harder on the young hunter. Bobby grimaced in sympathy, patting Dean's back once he'd finally finished being sick and pushed the trashcan away, lying back down with a nauseated hiccup.

"This sucks…" he whispered hoarsely, arm thrown across his eyes as he panted tiredly.

"I know, kid," Bobby replied, helpless to do anything but rub Dean's shoulder, as if that would do anything at all. He hated seeing the younger hunter like this. Dean was supposed to be strong, overconfident and occasionally even annoying, not so weakened by pain that the most he could do was curl into the pillow and moan pathetically. What was worse was the fact that until Sam got back, there was absolutely nothing to be done for it.

The two of them sat like that until Bobby lost track of the clock, just putting cold cloths on the back of Dean's neck and trying to knead some of the tension out of the muscles in his shoulders. Finally, blessedly, Sam returned from whichever pharmacy he had visited, carrying a few bags of groceries in one hand and a bright orange bottle of pills in the other. Sam quickly took Bobby's place beside Dean, coaxing the migraine meds and a little bit of Gatorade into him before tucking him under a fleece blanket and convincing him to roll over onto his belly while they waited for the pills to kick in.

"This isn't going to feel good at first, but I promise it'll help, okay?" Sam asked as he laid his fingers at the base of Dean's skull, right where it joined to his neck. Dean tensed but nodded, trusting Sam if he said he could make it better. He immediately hissed when Sam started massaging the back of his neck and head, but he kept still, fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to avoid vocalizing the discomfort.

Sam kept at it, gently working out the tension that would do nothing but worsen the headache, and over time Dean began to relax little by little. After ten minutes, his hands had stopped clenching into fists on the pillow beside him; after twenty, he was blinking rapidly, almost asleep as the pain pills tried valiantly to pull him under.

"It's okay," Sam whispered when Dean almost fell asleep and then visibly woke himself up again. "You can go to sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean nodded and yawned, closing his eyes and snuffling into the pillow as he finally relaxed for the first time in hours. Sam settled deeper into the chair beside him, cracking open a book with a smile and a shake of his head. The things his brother put himself through…

But Sam had meant what he had said, as well. He wasn't going to go anywhere, ever, until they found a way to get Dean out of this deal. And even if Dean forgot that, even if he didn't realize that Sam had his back and was ready and willing to protect him from more than just migraines, then that was fine. Sam still wasn't going to give up on Dean.

After all, Dean had never once given up on him, and it was time he returned the favor.


End file.
